Train Hijacked

...and then sometimes we hijack trains in the mall... :)

Emotional Me

Lately I have been an emotional wreck.  And not just the kind of wreck that leaves one rubbernecking to get a better look, I'm more like the kind of wreck that makes the evening news. 

Locally - and nationally. 

Some of my added stress, I'm sure, has to do with the fact that my bedroom is in my living room, my closet is in the hall and my bathroom is - gone - and I'm showering in my kid's bathroom whilst a plastic frog ogles my jubblies.

And, moreover, we are adding another member to our household. I would love it if I could swell with pride and tell you that it is going to be small, cute and bubbly --- a new cat! But no, I cannot.  Instead, we are moving my hub's granny in to our Below Apartment (it's not really a basement) so that we can keep a better eye on her aging self.  We're not sure how well this transition is going to go for her, or for us, hence the massive stress-thing. 

AND the kid has hit the Terrible Twos like a Ton of Terrible Bricks. 

Lord help us all on that particular torture. 

So I'm a bit of an Emo-wreck. Smudged mascara and all. 

Which, of course, prompts everyone to ask "What is WRONG with you?"

Which prompts ME to ask "What is WRONG with everyone else?"

When did having emotions go out of style? When did it become passe to be upset about something that was upsetting? When did crying become such a horrible stigma?

Why can't we just enjoy our moods?

I blame the golden age of Medication, Facebook, and Television. 

Medicate yourself enough and you can stop crying - FOREVER.  There are LOADS of stuff out right now that will help one forget their problems, their fears, their lackadaisy life, and, more than likely, their name.  

Facebook has given us such instant gratification that we can post a status update and see how much our online buddies value our humor, insightfulness or clever deductions on solving the Nation's most pressing crisis.  And our computer screens can't see us cry. 

Television has glorified emotions to the point that we are now trained to only emit a response if someone has lost a lot of weight, or got caught with a hooker (or two), had their house remodeled, or is in denial of their hoarding ways.  Nothing else is worth crying over. Or caring about.  

All that being said, I love modern medicine, Social Networking, and Must-See TV.  

I just wish I was "allowed" to shed a few tears when I stub my toe, or can't find my shoes, or burn a pot-pie in the oven.  

Until then, I shall line up with the rest of humanity and try, very hard, to shut off, shut down, and shut up.  

Wait - scratch that last one.  :)

Ring, Rang, Rung, New Year is DONE!

I didn't go out and party for the arrival of 2013.
I didn't buy a new dress, open a bottle of "bubbly," or even put on extra eyeliner or lashes for the occasion.
Nope.
I watched my two year old fall asleep on his daddy's lap, snore so loud he drowned out the droning of Carson Daly and then went to bed.
There were fireworks outside my window, but I couldn't be bothered to go to the window, part the poor excuse for a curtain (a Transformer's Blanket - remodeling is FUN), and gaze upon the heavens.

Why so glum?

I think it has something to do with the damn ball drop.
Every year I watch.
And every year I am sorely disappointed when the freakin' thing does not crash to a million pieces at the stroke of midnight.
I want it it to be a glass shattering, gravity defying mess as it plummets to the ground like a giant, angelic Pokemon ball full of shrapnel.
And then, amazingly, no one gets hurt!
Except maybe Jenny McCarthy  - and even then - just in her forehead, just a teeny scar so that it won't look so vacant all the time.
But I digress.

I want a ball to drop.
Actually drop.
During the Ball Drop.

So here's my proposal:

How to Ring in 2014

by HOLLY SHIVEL 

1. Gather up as many dunk-tank Carnival booths as we can find this side of the USA. 
2. Stick 'em in Times Square. 
3. Gather up all the singers, politicians, writers, anchors, reporters, actors, actresses and Big Wigs and convince them to "volunteer" their time. 
4. Sell balls to the masses for $1 each.  
5. The clock strikes midnight.
6. The masses kiss their lucky $1 balls that they might be the one to hit the target and dunk Christina Agu-a-layra (I can't spell her name and can't be bothered to learn), or Cheney, or Anderson Cooper, or Christian Bale (WET. HE'LL BE WET. AND COLD.  I CAN'T STRESS THIS ENOUGH - BATMAN WILL BE WET!!!), or even Justin Bieber and Kathy Griffin (together in one tank - that'd be  priceless). 

Following this new, and improved, method people will be able to actually have fun in Times Square on NYE, I will get to see Balls Drop (metaphorically and literally) and I will have solved the deficit.  

And maybe the Fiscal Cliff. 

Whatever the "f" that is. 

You're welcome, Americans.  

You're - welcome. 

HOLLY SHIVEL FOR PRESIDENT

 IN 2014!!!!

Scream and Shout ( a lot)

"And how are YOU?" the cashier said with a sympathetic smile.

I liked him for not NOT liking me.

Why? Because my sweet Angeldoodlehead, H4, had just thrown a fit worthy of an Academy Award in the middle of Old Navy.   In fact, I could still the screams echoing off the concrete walls filled with images of non-terrified souls in brightly colored parkas.  These were in sharp contrast to the people filling the aisles who were still not breathing after my pride and joy was heaved-hoed over my husband's shoulder and carried through the mall and out the door.

"He's two.  And he's milking it," I smiled and handed him a credit card.
"Oh, it's not signed? I'll need to see your ID."
"Okay!" I said brightly. I was happy. The kid was with the husband and I was thisclose to owning a mint green zip up sweater that was sooo cute and --
"He'll have to come back in and sign for this."
"What?" My good mood evaporated as I stared at the pre-pubescent, tattooed, Adam Lambert-wanna-be who just asked for the impossible.  He may have asked that I simply walk into Mordor, that was the scale of this nitwit's request.

I didn't like him.

"He was just here? Just carried out the crazed kid? You saw him," I was trying to be reasonable and I shook my Disney card in front of his eye-linered face - just in case the Kohl was blocking his damn view.
"Yeah, but he has to be the one to sign it," he said. "But I can hold it for you!"
"No.  No need.  I won't be coming back," I said.
I was proud of my maturity.
Proud of the fact that I was SEETHING on the inside but managed to keep my gaping maw closed - for once.

Happy Fucking Christmas, Glambert, I thought as I pushed my empty stroller toward the door.  "And thanks for the GIANT FUCKING INCONVENIENCE!"

Okay - maybe I didn't quite maintain my high level of maturity for too long.  :)

Ready or Not...

"Hey - can you be ready in ten minutes?"

These words are enough to put me in a bad mood for the entire weekend yet my husband, without fail, utters them to me every Saturday morning as I am emerging from the shower. 

This is from the same man who can take up to twenty minutes to decide on a pair of shoes.  Or thirty to decide on the perfect undershirt-and-t-shirt combo.  

So as I sit here in full attire, wet hair and a face lacking any tidbit of cosmetic enhancement I plot my revenge...   

Suggestions are welcomed.  :)

I am Super (Sand) Man

If I were given a wish to have a super power that could be anything in the world - I would not hesitate to seal my fate.  In my younger days I'd have wished for Teleportation power or Telepathic power, or even the power to be able to calculate a 20% tip in just seconds (this is my husband's power - one he flaunts every time we go out to eat). 

But now that I'm a mom, and I'm old, and I am sleeping in storage (the renovation is nearing it's end! yay!) I wish for just one Super Power ---

To be able to fall asleep instantaneously.  

I would love to be able to say "Hey! It's 10pm and the kid will be up at 6am! I need to go to sleep!" and then drift seamlessly off into Dreamland to meet up with Nathan Fillion and Jeremy Renner on a fluffy cloud pillow in the sky.  Nakeys.  

But I digress.  

A lot.  Mmmm.....  :)

Ahem. 

Ever since my kid was born it's like I can't get enough of the good stuff - that REM sleep that turns people into true humans and separates the Perky from the Petulant.   I'm pretty sure that, at one time, I considered myself "too bored to function" and would nap just for the hell of it.  I used to spend hours just lounging in bed doing nothing but dozing until the clock would roll from single digits to double and back to singles again.  That girl could sleep in a car, a bed, on a couch, and even, on the rare occasion, at her desk at work.  :)

I hate that girl.  

Now I go to bed by 12am, knowing that I will drift off into the Land of Total Exhaustion by 2am.  If I go to bed earlier - I still don't clock out until 2am.  

Get up earlier?

2am. 

It's like my body is trying to rid itself of all possible energy before hitting the internal Snooze Button. 

But why?

I have a kid to take care of!

A house to pretend to clean!

Laundry that must be sorted and never washed!

A bathtub and toilets that must be noted to clean "later"!

I think I'm just reverse aging.  My body is slowing down but my mind is speeding up.  Like some kind of cruel twist of fate, I am destined to be the smartest person I know (ahahah! ) but have the reflexes of a half-dead turtle.  

Maybe someday I'll be granted those awesome Super Power of Sleep  --- or a prescription for Ambien. 

You know, whatever comes first! :)

Daddy Dearest

"Remember the time that your sister in law and her doctor-to-be husband came over for the first time and Dad tripped over the baby gate at the end of the stairs, flipped, barrel rolled and then stood up and said, 'I'm okay.'?"

"Hey - remember when he tried to move the metal chairs from the upper deck to the lower deck but didn't want to take the time to move the chairs into a recline so they kept smacking him on the head - but he just kept moving them?"

"And then when he fell into the pool, slipped under the cover and kept popping up while I held on to one end? He kept yelling 'Drema, keep talking! I'll follow your voice!' but I was too busy laughing to say anything?"

"He called me once when I was working at the law firm to tell me he fell out of bed.  I had to sit there and try not to laugh so loud I would disturb the room full of lawyers next door as he told me how he fell out of bed, rolled into the closet where you had just put up new curtains and then couldn't get out because he was tangled in them!"

"And then that time when Matt Elixon called me and said 'hey - I'm here at the gas station and your dad is hanging out of the window, trying to jump in.  All I can see is his butt.' And I had to say, ' Yeah - he does that sometimes..."

"Remember that time when he cut a GIANT hole in the ceiling so that he could screw a vent in it to cover up the tiny hole he accidentally put in it while mopping the floor? How the hell did he do that in the first place?"


These stories are all about my dad.
He is unintentionally hilarious, which, we all know, is the best kind of hilarious.